


self-service

by kidcomrade



Category: No More Heroes (Video Games)
Genre: Masturbation, how appropriate., my travis fics are either sad!travis or travis jerking it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcomrade/pseuds/kidcomrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-canon. A guy's gotta get off somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	self-service

Of the two primary vices afforded to all young and stupid twenty-somethings—namely, being really drunk and being really horny—Travis Touchdown often decided, well, what the fuckin’ hell. Let’s just  _do both_. And yet, unfortunately for him, he often finds himself alone: no drinking buddies. Zero chicks. (Much less any who’d sleep with him.) 

 With the cheap booze wearing down on him and a splitting headache creeping upon him? There’s never many options besides taking matters into his own hands. 

 Matters as in Raging Drunken Boner Matters.

 “Shit,” he mutters. Who even puts  _buttons_  on jeans? There’s already a zipper, that’s enough, right?  _Whatever_ —he’s all thumbs trying to undo it and free his hard-on, pressed uncomfortably against the denim and boxers and the  _fucking air_. Everything’s too warm. He feels his blood pounding through his veins. Jesus, he needs to—

 _Yesss_ , he’s got it. Travis breathes a sigh of relief and kicks the door shut. His jeans fall to his ankles, the belt buckle catches on his shoelace and he doesn’t even give a damn. His cock’s already too hard to be comfortable and his fingers grasp, desperate, for purchase—he’s rubbing the head with his thumb before his body settles into his worn red armchair.  

At some point he instinctively reaches for the TV remote. He clicks on whatever porno was already in there; closes his eyes, listens to the moans of some foreign woman as he works himself closer. He’s never noisy, at least never when there’s nobody around to impress. But Travis, head thrown back on his chair, mouth half-open, allows himself to  _breathe_. The taste of alcohol warms his throat again as the up-down stroke of his hand on his cock increases pace.

…God, he needs to get legitimately laid, he thinks.

 _God_.

This works for now, though; and he comes with a shuddering, half-choked gasp. 


End file.
